


The Cost of Living

by violet_storms



Series: sapphic september 2020 [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Coping, F/F, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Sapphic September, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27277849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violet_storms/pseuds/violet_storms
Summary: Wanda’s room at headquarters has windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, and she’s pretty sure they’re the only thing keeping her sane.
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff & Natasha Romanov
Series: sapphic september 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907998
Comments: 3
Kudos: 75





	The Cost of Living

**Author's Note:**

> I know MCU Wanda is supposed to be a teen, but for the purposes of this fic, she’s twenty-five, the age Elizabeth Olsen was when they shot Age of Ultron.
> 
> _outlined in september, written in october, for sapphic september 2020. prompt: "fallen leaves."_

Wanda’s room at headquarters has windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, and she’s pretty sure they’re the only thing keeping her sane. Even after all these months her room is unfamiliar, and the inside of the building is too precise, too clean and clear—too often reminiscent of her cell. The outside is a metal shell, unblemished and unflinching. In her dreams it is emblazoned with one word, STARK, and she wakes up shivering so hard she fears she’ll fly apart. _Stark is not my enemy anymore,_ Wanda tells herself, but it doesn’t help, and at this point she doesn’t know why she bothers.

The windows save her. On the worst nights she pulls herself out of bed and curls up on the floor, leaning her head against the wall and letting her breath fog up the glass. Sometimes she traces letters in the mist, _WM_ and _PM,_ but that always gives her a sour feeling in the back of her throat and she drags herself back to the bed, pushing away memories of smaller hands and grubbier windows and a voice she’ll never hear again. In the morning the light dances across her eyelids and she feels lighter, breathes easier. Windowless, she thinks she would feel trapped.

And isn’t she? She cannot leave. Oh, perhaps they would pretend to let her go, but Wanda doubts even that. She is too dangerous, a weapon they’re not yet done evaluating. She isn’t a prisoner, because she chooses not to be, but it’s a close thing. She makes tea in the kitchen and eats lunch with one or two of them and from the outside looking in, everything’s perfect. But Wanda flinches at things they don’t bat an eye at, and jokes land dully between her ears when even Vision—Vision, not yet a year old with the whole world in his head—even Vision smiles, understanding, and Wanda is left to pull her lips up at the corners and dig her nails into her hands.

Sometimes it feels impossible, the magnanimity of the life she didn’t live pressing down on her shoulders like the weight of the sky. A childhood unaccounted for, friends and loves she never had. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like anything at all, and that’s almost worse. Wanda stares out her windows as her heart beats in an empty chest, and she wonders if she is really alive, if this is what you can call living.

 _I am one half of a half-person,_ she thinks. A wire stripped down to copper coils, something you snatch your hand away from at the touch. No one likes to meet her eyes.

She doesn’t blame them.

Invaluable though her windows are, there are days when it all becomes too much and Wanda just needs to leave, to breathe, to exist without being watched—which, when you’re an Avenger, is asking for a lot. The facility is remote, enclosed by forest and lake and tight security, and Wanda feels like she’s always five steps away from someone no matter where she turns. It’s only when she’s outside, walking along the edge of the water, that she can pretend she is alone.

Today the sun is hiding behind the clouds and there’s a chill in the air. Somehow it’s turned into autumn without her noticing; she’s sure it was summer yesterday, but now the trees are draped in orange and gold and the ground is scattered with leaves. A real smile tugs at her mouth as she crunches through a pile of them, watching the wind make miniature tornadoes in the grass. When at last the breeze settles and her hair drifts down around her shoulders, Wanda stops walking and straightens her back.

“You can come out,” she calls.

There’s a rustling sound as more leaves are disturbed, and then Natasha emerges from behind a tree, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a casual flick of her head. She smiles at Wanda. “When did you notice me?”

“Five minutes ago. I thought you were supposed to be a superspy?”

“Trust me,” says Natasha. “If I didn’t want you to see me, you wouldn’t have.”

“Good for you,” says Wanda. The smile has slid from her face, and she feels heavier somehow, as though chains have materialized around her ankles. “What is it?” she asks, resisting the urge to check and see if they have. “Have I got too far away from the compound? I suppose Stark’s tracking chip is going off?”

“Nothing like that,” says Natasha, and the surprise in her voice only makes Wanda’s bitterness worse. “You’re free to go wherever you like, you know that.”

“No, I don’t,” Wanda snaps. “Look, what do you want? I came out here to be alone, I thought that was obvious.”

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” says Natasha, unruffled by her hostility. “I thought now would be a good time.”

“It couldn’t have waited until I was back?”

“The walls have ears in that place,” says Natasha. “Trust me, I know.” She offers another smile, but Wanda glances away, crossing her arms over her chest.

“If you want to talk, then talk,” she says harshly. Natasha blinks at her.

“Are you all right?”

“What do _you_ think?” says Wanda, and all of a sudden her anger is gone and she finds herself hovering on the edge of tears. She tilts her head back, blinking hard. _Don’t be ridiculous,_ she tells herself. _Don’t be ridiculous, don’t cry, you’re past crying, you’re past it._ But it doesn’t help.

“Hey,” says Natasha softly, taking a hesitant step closer. “Hey. I understand.”

 _How can you possibly understand?_ Wanda wants to scream at her, except she knows exactly what Natasha understands, because she’s been inside Natasha’s head. Ever since that day at the Salvage Yard she’s had nightmares about ballerinas almost as often as bombs with STARK written on them. Wanda remembers things and names Natasha has nearly forgotten, details pressed sharply into her mind.

_Not everyone is made of marble._

“I don’t think—I don’t think we are so different,” says Natasha. Wanda doesn’t respond, but Natasha continues anyway, stepping closer so that they are only an arm’s length apart. “I do understand, at least a little. I understand how it can hurt when no one trusts you and you don’t trust anyone. I understand how it can feel when you lose someone.” She looks into Wanda’s eyes unflinchingly, earnestly, and Wanda blinks but does not look away. “But _you_ are still alive, Wanda. I want you to stay that way.”

“Why should you care?” Wanda means for the words to come out defiant, but instead they sound genuinely uncertain. “What do I matter to you?”

“I like you,” says Natasha simply. “I do. And I care if you’re safe and if you’re happy. I’ve been where you are. I had someone to help me then, and you deserve that, too. I want to help you.”

Wanda wants to say that she doesn’t need help. She wants to say that Natasha has more important things to worry about than Wanda’s safety, that they all do. She wants to say _I don’t deserve happiness, and I definitely don’t deserve someone who cares about mine._

Except she doesn’t really want to say that at all.

“I’m so tired of this pain,” she says quietly, the words spilling from her mouth. Wanda has never really admitted that to herself before, how much she wants this to be over, how much she wishes she could rewire her own mind and make herself forget her grief, her loneliness. “I’m so tired of it, Natasha.”

“Pain is the cost of living,” says Natasha. “It’s the cost of caring, too. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it.”

“I didn't think I’d hear those words from you,” says Wanda. Natasha shakes her head.

“Everyone likes to think I’m a robot, but I’m not. They’ll assume the same of you if you let them. Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s setting yourself up for failure.” Natasha stares at her evenly. “We’re all human—well, except Vision, I guess—but either way, we all feel pain. That can make you vulnerable, but it doesn’t have to make you weak.”

“I’m not weak,” Wanda says, willing it to be true.

“No, you’re not,” says Natasha. “You’re very strong, stronger than I used to be. But that doesn’t mean you don’t need a helping hand sometimes. If you want, I can be yours.”

Wanda doesn’t know what to say. Her chest is full of strange emotions, exhaustion and guilt and gratitude and something else she cannot name, something she doesn’t think she’s ready to look at yet. She opens her mouth and then closes it again, searching for the right words, but Natasha seems to understand. “I’m here if you ever want me to be,” she says, and turns to go.

 _Wait,_ thinks Wanda, and she stretches out a hand without realizing it, catching the other woman by the shoulder. Natasha turns to look at her. “Would you like to walk with me?” Wanda asks, and then immediately regrets it, pulling her arms back to her sides, but Natasha’s face breaks into a real smile.

“Of course,” she says.

The leaves crunch under their feet and flutter in the breeze, wind whispering through the trees around them. The air is cold, and the lake is icy, and after a moment Wanda hooks her arm through Natasha’s, linking them together. As they walk side-by-side in comfortable silence, she listens to the sound of her heart beating in its empty chest.

 _Not empty,_ she thinks. _Not empty anymore._

Wanda thinks it is time to build some windows. 


End file.
